Regaining Balance
by The Emmanator
Summary: A three-part story dealing with the aftermath of Wilson's Heart. Wilson and House find their way back to each other in three significant steps.
1. Wilson

Three different parts. Directly after Wilson's Heart. Written for unloveyou on LJ. This chapter is Wilson's.

* * *

Regaining Balance

_Prompt: _Wish I didn't love you

* * *

Cuddy's eyes were full of concern on Wilson's first day back since Amber's death. He had only taken three days off for himself.

"Are you sure you're ready to be back?" she asked him quietly.

He just nodded and went to his office to start his daily paperwork. Cuddy had gotten someone to take care of his work on his day off so he wasn't behind at all. He was glad for that.

For a good half of the day, he sat there, calmly doing his paperwork and minding his own visits. House didn't drop by to steal his lunch or talk about how irritating his fellows were or ask him about the patient he was treating.

It was kind of lonely.

He unwrapped a hastily made sandwich and took a bite when the door opened.

Wilson thought he may have jinxed himself. He prepared to surrender the sandwich.

But it was Cuddy.

She sat down in a chair across from his desk and her hands were sitting on her lap in a way that clearly indicated that she was uncomfortable, she fidgeted a little and toyed with a stray thread.

"I can't even begin to understand how hard this has been for you-" she started, staring at the thread. "I don't even _want _to imagine it. But I want you…" she paused. "I don't want you to blame House for what happened."

Wilson stared at her and she finally made eye contact.

"You _know _it's not his fault. He couldn't have foreseen all of this when he made that phone call. You're grieving and it's comforting to assign blame and you can rationalize it all you want, but honestly Wilson, you're the best friend House has."

After a minute of silence, and a minute of staring, Cuddy left.

Wilson had of course, been expecting this talk. It was true, he had blamed House at some point. He wasn't sure which point, but he had. No matter how satisfying it was to know someone was at fault for this, he couldn't keep it up.

He couldn't blame House for Amber's death. He could rattle off things that could've changed her fate, could've saved her, but the fact that it had happened wasn't something he could just put on the shoulders of his best friend.

Though sometimes the load got so heavy he wished he could. He wished he didn't care so damn much about the man that he could assign him some kind of blame.

But he couldn't.

* * *


	2. House

House's part of the three-parter. yay!

* * *

Regaining Balance

_Prompt: _I want you to hate me

* * *

Wilson had been back two days, and House had kept his distance. This was of course, unusual and slightly distressing to House.

But he figured that when Wilson was ready to be friends again, he would try and talk to him. Until then, House would have to wait.

Two days seemed like a really long time, plus the three Wilson had missed work.

That night, he dreamt of the bus, and there was Amber, in her bare feet and pastel outfit, bathed in some kind of otherworldly glow.

She looked at him with a combination of exasperation and amusement.

"What?" he asked.

"Apologize," she said simply.

"I'm sorry?"

"Not to me," she corrected, shaking her head.

House sighed, and got off the bus.

--

The next day, Wilson left his office for exactly three minutes and fifteen seconds to go to the bathroom.

When he got back, there was a note on his desk.

On the front, it simply said _'I'm sorry'_.

He unfolded it and read, feeling his throat tighten a little.

_'Wilson. I know there's some amount of blame you can assign me for the events of the past week. I want you to blame me, almost. Because if you don't blame me, knowing you, you'll blame yourself._

_-House'_

Wilson folded the note back up and put it in his wallet. He still didn't seek House out at lunch or on his way home.

--

House kind of wondered why Wilson hadn't joined him for lunch or walked him to his car, lecturing him about his latest escapades.

He would just have to give it time. So he cracked open a bottle of scotch and sat down in front of the TV.

After about three glasses of scotch, House picked up the phone.

"Dial-a Wilson," he mumbled to himself, dialing the number.

No answer.

"Wilson! You should be home. Why aren't you answering?" he said after the indicated beep.

Another glass of scotch, and he tried again.

He called quite a few times before he finally passed out on the couch, with the phone in his hand.


	3. Resolution

The conclusion.

* * *

Regaining Balance

_Prompt: _I hate myself

* * *

"House."

No response.

Wilson knocked again, a little harder. "I know you're home."

The door finally opened.

"Why have you been avoiding me?" Wilson asked.

"I haven't been avoiding you. Why have you been avoiding me?" House contradicted, scratching his chin.

"I just stood here and knocked for ten minutes."

"I called twelve times two nights ago."

"You were belligerently drunk, I heard your messages when I got home."

House stepped aside to let him in. "You haven't talked to me in a while."

"You haven't tried very hard to talk to me…" Wilson said. He hadn't really been speaking to anyone, truth be told. Patients, of course, but none of his friends or the recurring characters in the tragedy he called his life.

But they had at least _tried _to talk to him. They had patted him on the back and apologized and hugged him. He had accepted it without really feeling it.

He and House hadn't spoken since before House fell into the coma.

Since he had asked House to do the procedure that put him in that coma, truthfully.

There had been moments when he thought House was going to swoop in and steal his sandwich (mostly on days when he thought to himself that his sandwich was particularly delicious) and moments in the halls of Princeton-Plainsboro that they had made eye contact.

But neither of them had very actively sought the contact of the other.

It was no wonder they both thought they were being avoided.

"I just figured you blamed me for Amber," House said, trying to seem nonchalant.

Wilson froze in the act of removing his coat and stared. "I…"

There was a nasty voice in the back of his that, for the past few weeks, _had _blamed House. But he attributed it to grief. It hadn't entirely been House's fault. House had wanted all of this to happen about as much as Wilson did.

"I thought you hated me."

For an absurd moment as he had turned off Amber's lifesupport, he had.

But he couldn't really.

"I don't blame you if you do. I hate me."

"Don't."

House looked up.

Wilson dropped his coat and walked to the couch. "Old movies. Crying. So sit down."

"Don't get offended if I don't cry as easily as you do," House said with the smallest of smiles, following Wilson over to the couch. "And don't sit so close to me," he added as Wilson plopped down, putting them practically arm-to-arm. But neither of them moved.

"It may be absurd, but I've missed you, House."

* * *


End file.
